


Gasoline

by grahamhannah53



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Halsey - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Smut, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: A songfic based on Gasoline by Halsey.Or, alternately, five times Halsey lyrics applied to Grantaire and the one time they didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_ “Are you insane like me, been in pain like me…?” _

 

 “We  _ cannot  _ let this protest get out of hand like last time,” Enjolras declared firmly. “As we all know, Jehan is still recovering from his injuries, and had Grantaire and Bahorel not intervened, Eponine would most definitely have killed Monsieur Thenardier.”

Eponine looked decidedly nonplussed in the dim, golden lighting of the café, shrugging as if they were discussing the weather. “Stupid. Worth it.”

“So, what are our plans for containing vio-- Grantaire, you’re very talkative today and you seem to know a deal about violence from firsthand experience. Do you have any suggestions about preventing it at our protest?”

Grantaire, who had been caught mid-laugh, looked to Enjolras, his smile fading from his face as he realized that he had once again somehow trespassed into the forbidden zone of relaxation at the Musain. It didn't matter that Grantaire hadn't laughed in weeks-- it didn't matter that Joly had started it by telling a joke. He was sure that all Enjolras saw was an alcoholic and a failure in him, no matter what. And why should Enjolras be wrong? He certainly proved to be right about everything else he said.

Why did someone so hot have to be such a prick sometimes?

Grantaire, deciding not to wither under Enjolras’ steely gaze, let his usual façade of nonchalance fall right into place without so much as a blink.

“Well, I believe the solution to violence is to not be violent-- though I'm sure I could be mistaken,” he replied, grinning cheekily, biting back the urge to be defensive.

Laughter sprouted from all around the room, which probably didn't help the pissed-off Enjolras situation, but Grantaire was nonetheless a little pleased with himself. Joly and Bossuet, who sat at Grantaire’s side, slapped their knees with mirth as Bahorel roared. Cossette giggled daintily, Musichetta rolled her eyes with love in her smile, and Eponine did everything she could to hide her grin. Even poor, exhausted Feuilly was laughing so hard he choked on his beer. All of his friends were happy in that brief moment even if it was only seconds long. Grantaire, not for the first time in that room, felt his heart swell with contentment.

The only face that wasn't smiling was Enjolras’. 

Grantaire felt a twinge of pain in his chest with that realization, but his self-satisfied smirk never wavered. It was a talent, lying so well with his body-- one he had honed into a fine art.

(Even though Grantaire was good at lying like that, something made him feel incredibly guilty when doing so around Les Amis, specifically Enjolras. Enjolras never saw, never understood like the others did. Musichetta, for example, had learned to see through him like cellophane. Even Marius had managed to find a few of his tells…but Enjolras never suspected a thing.

Grantaire realized a long time ago that Enjolras had never felt pain quite like the rest of them had, or the great Apollo would  _ know _ .)

“This is a serious problem,” Enjolras sighed, leaning back in his chair as he spread his arms over the cherry wood of the table “We haven't even  _ tried _ to prevent violence at our rallies and protests and it reflects poorly on us, even if we don't start it. I know the police are usually there, but, unfortunately, they seem to be very against the idea of freedom of speech.”

_ Maybe we haven't tried to stop violence because it's impossible. Didn't work in the ‘50s, won't work now,  _ Grantaire pondered bitterly. 

_ But then again, Enjolras defies all logic. An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. _

Grantaire was not drunk enough for this. Everything hurt too much and made too much sense. He should probably go back home to his paints, to his easel, to things that were inanimate enough to tolerate him, simple enough for him to understand…but Grantaire was never a fan of doing as he should. Instead, he knew what he'd do, because that was what he always did-- he'd stay and listen, he'd watch in quiet admiration of Enjolras, the only man who seemed to be able to make him believe in anything other than what he could touch with his own hands. He would stay, and when everyone had gone, he’d linger still behind and have a smoke with one of the women at the bar that he'd seduce into driving him home only to leave her lonely with a fifty dollar bill in her pocket.

So it had been. So it would always be. 

The meeting continued as background noise for Grantaire’s drunken self-pity, and it was over before he realized it. Joly said something in farewell, linking arms with Bossuet and Musichetta who also said something to that effect. Eponine hugged him warmly, kissed his rough, stubbly cheek, and asked him a question to which he had no reply. One by one, Les Amis left, each wishing him goodnight with many different words that he could not recall the morning after. 

Except Enjolras. 

Usually, Enjolras only looked him in the eye and nodded. Tonight, though, Enjolras extended his hand and smiled faintly. At his touch, Grantaire became lucid.

“Thank you, again, for protecting Jehan last week at the rally. And for your many,  _ many  _ monetary donations. We never tell you enough how much we appreciate you.”

_ We, not you.  _ “Anyone would have done it,” Grantaire waved him off, unable to form a longer, more coherent sentence at the time.

“But  _ you  _ did it,” Enjolras nodded, as though that meant something. “Take care of yourself-- and don't drink so much. You're better than that.”

“Is that a command, Your Grace?” Grantaire joked, only half sarcastic.

Instantly, Enjolras’ face hardened to its usual marble state. “That's not even remotely funny.”

“I thought it was.”  _ Not that my opinion matters to you. _

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

As it turned out, Grantaire didn't even make it to the bar. He passed out at the table and was left out all night, no one having the guts to kick one of the richest men in the state out of the establishment.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Ep, seriously, do we have to check up on him? He's a grown-ass man who can make his own decisions--”

“And you're a grown-ass man who didn't know how to take blood out of clothes until I showed you yesterday, Montparnasse,” Eponine quipped, rolling her eyes. “We all need help sometimes, and Grantaire has always been there for me. I intend to be there for him, too.”

“Whatever,” Montparnasse grumbled. “Still think this is bullshit. Anyone that lives in a neighborhood like this doesn't need any help, poor, pitiful, past or not.”

Grantaire really did live in a fantastic neighborhood. He owned a three-story mansion with gilded everything. He even had a fountain in his front yard and a pool in the back where Les Amis would sometimes throw parties. His house was currently occupied on and off by Feuilly and Bahorel as well as Gavroche, Eponine’s little brother, on occasion. In general, Grantaire’s house was open to, well, everyone. Complete strangers lodged there for weeks, months at a time-- whatever it took to get them back on their feet. R reminded Eponine of a very charitable Gatsby. Only, Eponine questioned whether Grantaire really opened his doors so freely out of charity or out of loneliness-- she decided, in the end, that it was most likely a mix of both. Either way, it was all very Gatsby of him.

Grantaire even had the romantic obsession with a blond to match.

Not feeling the need to knock, Eponine walked right into Grantaire's mansion only to hear faint sounds of vomiting from the bathroom. 

“Oh,  _ Grantaire _ .”

She left him alone for two days--  _ two days _ \-- and he wound up like this. Pale, sickly, and incredibly weak, Grantaire looked up from the toilet at her with red eyes and a gaunt face, making a terrible sight.

“Hey, Ep, how's it going…”

“You look like  _ shit _ ,” she sighed, sitting on the tiled floor beside him. “How much did you drink yesterday?”

“Nothing. And nothing today,” Grantaire replied weakly, hugging the toilet. “I'm gonna quit.”

Eponine felt her stomach drop. “I’m so glad you're making that decision for yourself, but quitting cold turkey is  _ such  _ a bad idea for you.”

“Don't care.”

“But I do. You could  _ die _ , Grantaire.”

Her best friend gave a sickening smirk. “You say that like I care.”

Rage boiled in Eponine’s chest. “That's bullshit. Pull yourself together. I need you, Les Amis needs you…the  _ world _ needs you.”

“Liar. It will go on without me just like it always has.”

It hurt Eponine to see Grantaire so broken, but she was glad he allowed her to see this side of him. To most other people, he was just a devil-may-care rich man that had a soft spot for the bottom feeders-- nothing could be farther from the truth. Grantaire was kind, sensitive, compassionate, empathetic, and a wonderful friend, but he rarely let people return the favor. Eponine was blessed to be his closest confidante and felt it was her duty to remind her precious R how much he was loved.

“But all the world’s a stage,” Eponine told him kindly, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “And you're my favorite actor.”

“Everyone knows all the best actors meet tragic ends.” Grantaire’s grin was fragile, but genuine. “I suppose I'll have to wait for a more dramatic tragedy to kill me.”

“Mister, you don't get to die until I say you can,” Eponine laughed, standing up. “As for now, I say you can't die, so you stay alive while I keep ‘Parnasse from raiding your kitchen.”

Grantaire groaned. “Seriously? You brought him here?”

“He  _ is _ my boyfriend, after all.”

“He's a boring fuck, ‘Ponine, get out while you still can,” Grantaire joked. “I charged him fifty extra the last time for being so fucking boring.”

“Shut up and feel better, loser.” Eponine bent to kiss Grantaire’s cheek. “We need you well for the protest this week.”

Grantaire sighed, putting the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. “You only love me for what you can use me for.” 

Beneath that joke was a very real, barely unspoken accusation, but not of Eponine. Of Enjolras. 

Of all the people in the world that deserved to be with the person they loved, Grantaire was the most worthy. He bore the brunt of Enjolras’ scorn without so much as a single protest, and was always there for the revolutionary in red whenever and wherever there was a need. Eponine almost felt sorry for Enjolras’ ignorance. 

He'd never know what he was missing with Grantaire. Not many other people in the world were capable of that kind of love-- that pure, selfless love, the kind that poets write about, the kind that children dream of having one day-- and the odds that Enjolras would find anyone else that would be capable of loving him that much got more and more slim every day.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me, just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me. Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?/span> _

  
  


Enjolras wasn't even sure how the argument started. It was the day before the protest, and he'd called an emergency meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC because somehow their stash of posters had gone missing. They were now all scrambling to create new ones with materials ranging from Sharpie pens to Crayola markers to Rose Art Crayons. Even with his broken arm, Jehan was scribbling poetry and the mottos of Les Amis furiously with his weaker hand. 

Grantaire, who had been the first to respond since Enjolras’ discovery, had been working for hours, painting and sketching and setting things to right. Enjolras had almost been proud until he noticed the various spelling, grammar, and capitalization errors on Grantaire’s completed posters. That, coupled with Grantaire’s red-rimmed eyes, made Enjolras scoff  _ useless drunk _ under his breath, not really thinking about what he was saying and why he was saying it. 

Grantaire exploded. 

“ _ Drunk _ ?” He snarled, looking up from his most recent poster. “ _ I _ am not  _ drunk _ .”

The entire Musain went silent. 

Enjolras set his jaw, in no mood for games. “Then explain to me--”

“I don't owe you an explanation for  _ shit _ , Apollo,” Grantaire snapped, slamming down his paintbrush. “You told me to drink less. I'm drinking less. Yesterday, I poured a  _ hundred dollar bottle of champagne  _ down my kitchen sink to resist the temptation to drink the whole damn thing, so I'm  _ sorry  _ if I'm not up to whatever impossible standards you have set for me tonight.”

“Is this little outburst about the cost of the champagne?” Enjolras demanded, a little affronted by Grantaire's sudden verbal onslaught. “I didn't tell you to throw your alcohol out, I only--”

“You only made a well-meaning suggestion, yes, I know.” Grantaire's face had morphed into a vicious scowl, though he somehow managed to be ruggedly handsome, stubble and all. “You of all people, the perfect saint, trying to convert the sinner. Enjolras, you know me the least of everyone here. You don't even know  _ why  _ I became an alcoholic, and you presume to tell me what to do about it.”

The next step in the conversation was obvious to Enjolras.  _ If you don't know, ask.  _ “Why did you become an alcoholic?”

Somehow, that seemed to be the wrong question. The tension in the air increased, and Enjolras’ stomach dropped.

“R, you don't have to--” Joly began, but Grantaire held up a hand to stop him.

“It's time he knew. I'm giving up bad habits, remember?”

Even unflappable Montparnasse looked distressed. Enjolras questioned if he had made the right choice in pressing Grantaire, but he sure as hell wasn't going to back down now.

“Go on, then.”

“When I was sixteen, my dream was to go to art school,” Grantaire began shakily, lifting his dark, reflective eyes to Enjolras. He half a god as his skin glowed gold under the café lights and his long lashes kissed his cheek when he blinked. “I saved up all of the money I made mowing lawns, cleaning houses, babysitting, anything I could do so that I could go. When I was seventeen, my hateful, homophobic parents found out that I was half a fag, as they said, and they kicked me out. They completely cut me off, and took my savings account. I lost everything.”

Enjolras wanted to interject that he'd been kicked out and cut off as well, but it seemed inappropriate.

“Life after that was hard. I tried working at fast food places, but it just wasn't enough to pay the rent. Then one night, I was at a bar-- not gonna lie, I was dressed in my best rags, with my best guyliner and everything-- and this guy asked me how much I charged. I told him a ridiculous amount, just joking, and he was desperate enough to pay it. So I took it.” Grantaire swallowed thickly. “I was a prostitute for five years. It was absurd how much people paid for me and my ugly mug. I guess that's how you know you're a good lay.” He laughed, but it was hollow. “That's where all my money came from. I was living comfortably, and all was well, except I felt hands on me when there were none, felt naked even when I was clothed. My escapades left me feeling shittier and shittier, so I drank. When I was drunk, I didn't feel anything at all, and it was easier to live with myself that way.”

Grantaire drew a breath, seemingly hesitant. When he began again, his voice was softer, more gentle.

“And then I met you.”

After that statement, no one dared to breathe. A feeling of dread washed over Enjolras like an ocean wave-- all-encompassing. 

“I was coming here to meet a client, and then I walked by this very room and watched you screaming and preaching as if for your life.” Grantaire let out a dark chuckle at that. “And I thought to myself, ‘That's a pretty, rich boy if ever I saw one.’ I figured that anyone with that much frustration needed a good lay, and I saw a couple of my former clients sitting around, so I figured I'd hang around and make everyone uncomfortable.”

“Grantaire, I had no idea.” What else could Enjolras say? He remembered what he said to time he'd spoken to him. Grantaire had questioned almost every belief that Enjolras held dear, and Enjolras had snapped. 

_ “If you don't believe in anything, then why are you here?” _

_ “Because I believe in you.” _

Oh, God. 

“Damn right, you had no idea.” Grantaire stood, stepping around his chair to leave. “You can paint your own shitty posters. I'm out.”

When Grantaire slammed the door behind him, Eponine got up to follow, but Montparnasse stopped her.

“I got it this time, babe. You have posters to make, and I don't wanna be in a room with this asshole,” he said, pointing his cigarette at Enjolras accusingly. “Any longer than I have to be.”

Enjolras, for once lost for words, looked to Courfeyrac, then to Combeferre, who both shook their heads. 

“All of you knew?” Enjolras asked, scarcely recognizing his own voice.

Everyone around the room nodded.

“And nobody told me?”

“You never asked,” Jehan replied, twisting a pencil in his hands. 

“Anything else you're not telling me?” Enjolras asked, hurt by the disappointed faces of his friends. 

Bahorel folded his arms, his biceps twitching threateningly. “Besides the fact that I want to punch you in the face right now? You're the only person in the room Grantaire hasn't had sex with at least once.”

Enjolras’ eyes widened. Surely not… He turned back to Combeferre, questioning. 

“Even you?”

Combeferre shrugged. “It was phone sex. Once. He really does have the voice of a sex god.”

Enjolras, feeling weak, took a seat. 

_ What have I done? _


	3. Chapter 3

_ Are you high enough without the Mary Jane like me? Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me? Do the people whisper 'bout you on the train like me? Saying that you shouldn't waste your pretty face like me? _

  
  


“I'd ask if you were okay, but I know you're not.”

_ What a fucking understatement, _ Grantaire thought as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Parnasse, just because Eponine sent you doesn't mean you have to come.”

“I volunteered. It's going to rain on my sexy new jacket, and it'll be all your fault.”

Grantaire raised his dark eyes to Montparnasse’s baby blue ones, and he found comfort in his first client’s sincerity. 

“Let's go somewhere, then. I haven't eaten all day, and my head is splitting.”

_ And my chest feels like it's being ripped apart because the man I have loved since I saw him sees me as nothing but a disappointment. _

“My treat. You're too good for him, you know,” Montparnasse mused. “Enjolras, I mean.”

“Kind of you to say, but rather untrue.”

Montparnasse offered Grantaire his cigarette, and Grantaire indulged in a long drag. “You really  love him, don't you?” 

“More than I ever have myself,” Grantaire smiled wryly.

“No offense, but everyone would fall into that category with you. I got something a little stronger back at the apartment if you need to loosen up a little.”

“None taken. And I don’t think getting high right now would be such a great idea, but thanks for offering.”

Grantaire waited a long moment before continuing. 

“Do you know that people still whisper about me on the train?” Grantaire asked hoarsely, turning to look at Montparnasse. “I walk everywhere because I don't want to hear them. They say I'm wasted as a bartender. That I was a better prostitute, useful for sex more than mixing drinks. Most days, I wonder if they're right.”

Without another word, Montparnasse grabbed Grantaire's hand comfortingly, leading him down the street to one of the shittiest restaurants in town. It was almost nostalgic, walking hand-in-hand with someone down the street on an overcast day.

All of a sudden, Grantaire felt a thousand times better. 

_ I have friends. Friends that care about me. They don't judge me for my past, the past that I've doubled my water bill trying to wash away. I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not alone. _


	4. Chapter 4

_ And all the people say, “You can't wake up, this is not a dream.You're part of a machine, you are not a human being.” With your face all made up, living on a screen. Low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline. _

  
  


The day of the protest was beautiful and sunny, but hot as hell itself. Enjolras wasn't sure he  _ wasn't  _ in hell-- his friends seemed to have formed a coalition against him after the incident with Grantaire that he still felt sorely sorry for. No one talked to him except Marius, who remained blissfully ignorant of the whole event, having gone to the toilets during the incident, and as it turned out, Marius had been the creator of the erroneous posters as well, not Grantaire. For the first time in his life, Enjolras was well and truly humiliated. 

Of course, he had tried to right things with Grantaire, if not for the sake of their fragile friendship then for the contributions he made to Les Amis de l’ABC. He'd read the messages over and over again, wishing that things were as okay as Grantaire pretended they were.

**/To Grantaire:**

**I apologize from the bottom of my heart for my behavior tonight. It was unjust and uncalled for, as are most of the things I say and do to you. I can do nothing but apologize, for there is no thing that I can do to right my wrongs. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me./**

That was the closest Enjolras had ever come to self-hatred, that night. He felt like a proper dickhead, less, even than Trump, because at least Trump didn't treat his supposed friends like shit. He just treated everyone and everything  _ else  _ that way.

**/From Grantaire:**

**Jesus, kid, take a blood pressure pill. It's not a big deal-- nothing to be forgiven. See you at the protest ~R/**

And that had been that. 

Grantaire certainly seemed to be more over it than Enjolras suspected. He showed up to the protest with Bahorel and Feuilly in time for Enjolras’ speech, and afterward, while they continued the protest, he accidently started an outbreak of dancing. It all began when Grantaire started backing it up on Eponine, who was playing along rather filthily, when Feuilly remembered that he'd brought a great speaker, and he'd brought his hella gay playlist that he used when he DJ’d at the gay nightclub down the street from Enjolras’ apartment.

Needless to say, as soon as Feuilly turned up the volume, everyone in and out of Les Amis started dancing. Combeferre seemed pleased to have a rather enthusiastic, rainbow-colored Courfeyrac grinding on him, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were spectating Grantaire and Feuilly’s breakdancing competition, and Jehan was spitting fire, freestyle rapping whenever there was a break in the music for him to do so. Eponine and Cossette were scream-singing at the top of their lungs while Montparnasse glared at and intimidated Marius into fidgeting nervously-- on the whole, everyone looked extremely happy. 

Enjolras felt estranged. 

“Just because we're mad at you doesn't mean we don't love you, you know.”

Enjolras almost jumped out of his skin as Joly spoke lowly beside him. 

“I know,” Enjolras sighed. “I want to fix things. I  _ tried  _ to fix things. I don't know what else to do.”

Joly nodded, smiling understandingly. “R is a wonderfully complex person, but it makes dealing with him and his emotions very difficult. I think it's time I told you something, though, for the good of the both of.you.”

Enjolras felt sick at that. “I don't think I can take any more honesty from you people.”

He still hadn't gotten over the fact that Grantaire had been attracted to him.  _ Pretty boy,  _ Grantaire had called him. That had multiple implications, but the bottom line was…

Grantaire thought he was pretty. 

“Enjolras, I'm afraid you can't avoid this one,” Joly smiled sadly, propping against his cane. “Grantaire is in love with you.”

_ What the f u c k…This has got to be a dream. When will I wake up? _

Enjolras’ head was reeling. 

“Wait, what?”

Before Joly could answer, the dreadful.sound of gunshots rang out across the street, and in mere seconds, the peaceful protest turned into a mêlée. 

If not for Grantaire, Les Amis would have been scattered like paper in the wind. Enjolras didn't know how, but the man managed to grab everyone by twos and threes and fling them to safety in an alley, away from the commotion on the street. Enjolras was among the first to be pulled to safety. He tried to stop Grantaire, to keep him from going back out into danger, but before he could speak even a word, Grantaire was gone, and back again. Gone, and back again.  Each time he left, Enjolras became more and more afraid that he wouldn't do so again. 

Once all Les Amis were tucked into the alley, Grantaire turned to head out again, but Enjolras touched his shoulder, and he recoiled as though he'd been burned. 

“Don't go,” Enjolras pleaded, knowing his eyes were full selfish,  _ selfish _ fear.  _ I need you, please don't get hurt while things are still unsettled and unforgiven between us. “ _ Not without me.”

“And me,” Feuilly croaked, but Bahorel only ruffled his bright orange hair and told him that his ‘orange tabby, Garfield-looking ass, was staying right put, which was probably a good idea since he had quite a knot forming on his head from a baton swung by a policeman.

“Enjolras, no offense, but you got in a fight with a blow-up punching bag and it  _ won _ .” Grantaire said, fixing him with an odd look. “There's no way I'm letting you out in that, and we're wasting time arguing about it.”

“I’ve been arrested before for punching a guy out!” Enjolras protested.

“If you get hurt, you are  _ not _ going to blame me.”

_ I don't blame you for anything, _ Enjolras wanted to say, but he only nodded before following Grantaire out into the chaos.

The last thing Enjolras heard before the descent into madness was Montparnasse giving his usual disclaimer:

“If they get arrested, I will  _ not  _ be pitching in for their bail.”

  
  


***

  
  


“Ooh,” Eponine, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Montparnasse winced all at once, watching Grantaire attempt to pull Enjolras off of some guy that called them faggots. Grantaire half-succeeded, but he got one of Enjolras’ sharp, bony elbows slammed into his nose for all his efforts. Combeferre knew from experience that didn't feel very good at all.

“You know, they could probably stop fighting now,” Bossuet commented just before he tripped over a trashcan lid. “The worst of everything is over. Grantaire probably  _ needs _ to stop-- he hasn't slept in at least two nights that I know of.”

“What's he running off of, solar power?” Eponine asked, half worried, half amused. 

“Certainly not self esteem. My bet is on gas from the burrito he had three days ago,” Courfeyrac laughed, his hazel nut eyes sparkling prettily in the sun. Combeferre fought the urge to kiss him and smiled lightly instead.

“I could go break that up, but it's just too entertaining,” Montparnasse laughed. 

Eponine elbowed him and he groaned, striding out to pull Enjolras and Grantaire away by their collars. 

(As it happened, Montparnasse did not succeed in breaking up the little brawl, but landed himself in jail along with Enjolras and Grantaire for the group to bail out.)

Enjolras, even with bloody knuckles, filthy clothes, and golden hair sticking up in every direction, looked a thousand times better walking out of that jail cell than he had fresh and ready that morning. Combeferre wondered not for the first time at how angelic his best friend could be-- Enjolras almost appeared to glow with a golden light, like some sort of saint.

Combeferre could see why Grantaire loved him. 

As for R himself, he looked just plain filthy and exhausted. A head wound had bled and matted his dark curls to his head, and the dark circles under his eyes looked more like bruises than they ever had before. All the same, he had a sort of self-satisfied air about him that told Combeferre that nothing was very wrong. 

“We’re on the news,” Montparnasse informed no one in particular as he slung an arm around Eponine. “As they say, no news is good news.”

“Ah, but there is no such thing as bad publicity,” Grantaire laughed. 

For the first time in a long time, Enjolras allowed himself a small, genuine smile, and Combeferre just  _ knew _ he'd figured it out. Someone let it slip, someone told, and now-- now Enjolras looked as happy as a pig in mud.

Combeferre broke out into a grin and clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. 

It was going to be alright


	5. Chapter 5

_ I think there's a flaw in my code. These voices won't leave me alone. Well my heart is gold, and my hands are cold, _

 

**/From Apollo:**

**We need to talk/**

Grantaire stared at the message, wishing it would just disappear so he could go back to his usual moping.

How was he supposed to respond to that? Okay? No, you just think you do? Gotta blast?

Grantaire sighed.

**/To Apollo:**

**If you want to talk about what I think you want to talk about, don't waste your time. I'm pretty sure I forgive you for whatever imagined slight you've done me. ~R/**

Even now, waiting for Enjolras to reply, Grantaire heard the voices, heard what they used to say, what they still said. 

_ Freak. Slut. Fag. Whore. Worthless piece of shit. Useless. _

By now, the words shouldn't even bother Grantaire, but they were true, weren't they? They all accurately described him.Grantaire's cold, clammy fingers itched for another drink, but before he could talk himself into going to get one, his phone buzzed.

**/From Apollo:**

**We really, really need to talk. In person./**

_ Insistent shit _ , Grantaire thought, but sighed and typed out his assent.

**/To Apollo:**

**Fine. Drop by whenever./**

And so Grantaire waited. And waited. And waited. 

Enjolras never came. 


	6. Chapter 6

_ Are you deranged like me? Are you strange like me? Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me? Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me? Pointing fingers cause you'll never take the blame like me? _

 

__   
  


 

Enjolras woke in a puddle of his own drool on his desk. In the moments after figuring out which way was up, mortification slowly spread throughout his body as he realized. 

_ Grantaire. _

Holy shit. He'd never showed up. He'd meant to go right after he finished his paper but he'd fallen asleep…

Enjolras was well and truly fucked. 

How could he have been so  _ stupid?  _ If Grantaire didn't hate him before, he surely did now. Enjolras thought about picking up his phone and sending an apology via text, but he figured anything that was to be done between he and Grantaire needed to be done in person.

_ Well, he did say I could drop by whenever… _

The walk to Grantaire's house was ordinarily long and unpleasant, but Enjolras took it at a run and was there in half the time. Without so much as a knock, he threw open the front door and then realized that he had no idea where Grantaire's room would be. 

_ What do I do?  Call Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down that not-really-golden hair? _

Somehow, through the frenzy of his thoughts, Enjolras noticed labored breathing besides his own. Immediately, his mind began to spin.

_ Maybe he has a workout room around here, _ Enjolras thought, following his ears.  _ He's probably letting out some tension on a punching bag that he would rather take out on me.  _

Grantaire was letting out some tension alright. Just not on a punching bag.

Grantaire had left the door flung carelessly, unashamedly open. His hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking in what seemed like a nearly painful way. As soon as Enjolras saw him, he froze, unable to go and yet unable to say. To see Grantaire laid bare this way, to see all of his corded muscle and his dark, coarse hair…and his  _ prick _ , fuck, it was huge and perfect…was sin and almost sacred. He was  _ beautiful,  _ displayed like a gem on satin sheets.

Enjolras knew what he had to do. 

Carefully, he walked into the room, silent as a shadow, but even had he been as loud as a bulldozer, it was doubtful that Grantaire would have noticed him, so lost was he to his pleasure. Ever so carefully, Enjolras placed a tentative knee on Grantaire's mattress, and when Grantaire's eyes flickered up to meet his, half shocked half embarrassed, Enjolras gave him his best sex eyes and spoke low in his throat, placing his hand over Grantaire's.

“Do you permit it?”

“I'm dreaming,” Grantaire rasped, eyes wide. “No, I'm high, something. I've finally fucking snapped.” He let out a hyena-like laugh. “I'm officially a fucking basket case, or ‘Parnasse put some wicked strong shit in that lemon cake.”

“You are not dreaming, or high,” Enjolras said, shifting fully onto the bed. “I am asking for your consent to get you off. Do you give it?”

“I'm in no position to say no to anything you say, Apollo.”

Enjolras sighed. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

_ If he can't see me as a man and not some deity, we can't do this _ .

Grantaire laughed sourly. “Well, definitely not a dream.”

_ I don't have time to play mind games. _ “I love you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire leaned back on his hands, quirking a brow. “Interesting. Maybe this  _ is  _ a dream after all. Do continue.”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Joly told me that you loved me. I'd had no idea that you felt that way, or I'd have made a move sooner…which is what I wanted to talk about yesterday. Sorry for that, by the way, I meant to come, only-- Grantaire, can I kiss you?”

Grantaire smiled. His expression wasn't hollow, it wasn't mocking-- he was genuinely happy.

“If you wish.”

Enjolras did wish. He kissed Grantaire softly, at first, and then with more passion. He almost lost himself before he realized that he still had a point to make. 

“Joly said that your feelings for me are somewhat…unhealthy, and I want you to know that you are deserving of what makes you happy.” Enjolras was unsure of how to say what he meant (being distracted by Grantaire's nakedness was not helping either), but he hoped Grantaire would get the gist. “You're incredibly intelligent, if a cynic at heart, incredibly handsome, though I'm sure you've heard it all before.”

“I can always stand to hear it from someone who means it,” Grantaire smiled, then stopped himself. “I assume you meant it.”

“You should know by now that I always mean what I say.” Enjolras paused, chewing his lip. “Before I continue with this, Grantaire…do you love me?”

“I can't believe that's actually a question,” Grantaire laughed. “I loved you from the moment I saw you, Enjolras, and everyone knew it but you.”

Enjolras hung his head. “I feel the fool. Let me make it up to you.”

Before Grantaire had time to react, Enjolras leaned forward to take Grantaire's cock down his throat. Grantaire, apparently taken aback, gasped in shock, then moaned deliciously in pleasure. Enjolras, already half-hard, felt his own cock twitch in response. He'd never given a blow job before, but he'd read all about it. In none of the books did it mention how bloody  _ arousing  _ it would be. It felt like he was swallowing fire, just not so painful.

“I thought you were a virgin,” Grantaire groaned as Enjolras mouthed his balls. 

“I am,” Enjolras smiled. “I read a lot.”

“Oh  _ fuck _ .”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Once all the debauchery that Enjolras and Grantaire had the stamina for had taken place, Grantaire decided that it was all not a dream as he watched Enjolras’ naked chest rise and fall. 

Dream Enjolras never snored. 

Grantaire wondered if Enjolras truly loved him. Sure, Enjolras was physically attracted to him-- he wouldn't have been so enthusiastic earlier if he wasn't--but that didn't constitute real feelings. If he really and truly did love Grantaire…then why hadn't he shown it before? Why now did he all of a sudden decide to barge into Grantaire's life in a hurricane of fire and passion? 

It didn't make any sense. 

“I like your paintings.”

Grantaire started, looking over to Enjolras (or rather the halo of golden curls.sticking out of the sheets) in confusion. “What?”

“They all feature red. It's my favorite color. But I really like that one on the wall over there.”

Ah. That painting. 

It was of Les Amis, laughing and drinking at the Musain. It was obviously painted from Grantaire's perspective of the room, and each member had something that symbolized the personal identities with them. It was Grantaire's greatest work, in his own opinion-- his masterpiece. 

“I like that one too.”

Enjolras shifted, looking at Grantaire with a sudden fire in his eyes. “I think I love your work so much because everything is portrayed through your eyes, and you see the beauty in everything. Because you can see the worst, you have a better grasp on the best.”

As Grantaire leaned down to kiss Enjolras, he began to think that maybe, just maybe, Enjolras might actually love him. 

  
  
  



End file.
